


Believe

by justanothersong



Category: Supernatural
Genre: 12 Days of Destiel 2013, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Crack, Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Holidays, M/M, Supernatural AU: Not Hunters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-18
Updated: 2013-12-18
Packaged: 2018-01-05 02:03:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,780
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1088307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justanothersong/pseuds/justanothersong
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Weeks before Christmas, a mysterious stranger blows into town and brings with him more questions than answers, leaving Detective Dean Winchester scrambling to understand what exactly is happening as the holiday approaches.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Written for [12 Days of Destiel](http://12daysofdestiel.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Kinda cracky, but kinda fun.

If he had been more conscious of the world at large, Sam would, more likely than not, never have picked up his phone as it began chirping out its irritating default ringtone from his bedside table. The default ringtone meant an unknown number, and Sam rarely answered those anymore. It was two o’clock in the afternoon, and though Sam was never much of an over-sleeper, he had been working long hours and studying well into the night all week, and he was completely exhausted. 

Face down in a pillow and snuggled deep into his blankets to fend off the winter chill, Sam reached out one arm, grabbed his phone and pressed it to his ear, barking out a gruff, “This had better be good.”

“Oh you answered, thank god!” a frantic female voice whispered in response. 

Sam let out a groan. “Becky, I was sleeping,” he said, trying to remain civil. “What is it?”

Getting involved with Becky Rosen had not been the worst mistake Sam had ever made, but it was definitely up there in the top ten. She had seemed sweet enough, if a little excitable, and was pretty cute if a little excitable, so Sam hadn’t thought twice about asking her out for a cup of coffee when she smiled at him in the book return line at the local library. Before the night was over, she had added Sam as her significant other on all of her social networking, and it had taken him three run-throughs of the ‘let’s be friends’ speech before it seemed to sink in. Even so, she still called often and showed up randomly places when he’d go out – mostly harmless, if a little overbearing at times. She knew his schedule better than her own, and knew well enough to know he’d be sleeping that afternoon, leaving Sam even more annoyed than usual with her call.

“Sam, I need your help!” she hissed into the phone. “I’m at work and I have a weirdo in a trench coat staking the place out!”

That made Sam sit up in bed, rubbing the sleep out of his eyes. He knew Becky had taken a part time job in the electronics department of the largest toy store in town, undoubtedly crowded that day with the Christmas holiday fast approaching, and her words had set alarm bells ringing in his head.

“I’m not a cop anymore, Becky,” he reminded cautiously. “Did you try Dean? Or just calling 9-1-1?”

“No!” Becky whispered back. “The creep hasn’t done anything but take pictures so far and I don’t want to freak people out. You know how Dean is when there are kids involved, Sam. I don’t need him barging in here with a cavalry behind him.”

 

Sam had to admit, she had a point. Dean was still an officer with the local police department, and a damn good one, but he had a hell of a temper, especially when it came to someone going after kids. He already had two excessive force charges levied against him from throwing a child molester out a plate glass window the year before, and beating his accomplice to a bloody pulp. The charges had eventually been dropped due to a certain lack of evidence – his partner, Benny, had conveniently not been anywhere near the incidents to see anything – but the black marks remained on his record.

“Can’t you just come and put the fear of God into him or something? Get him to leave?” Becky pleaded.

“I’m not a cop anymore, Becky,” Sam repeated, exasperated. He had quit the force some months prior to begin clerking for Judge Crowley while he pursued his law degree.

“I know, but you’re beautiful!” Becky responded, earning an aggravated sigh from Sam. “I mean… you’re all huge and muscly and big and tall and you can be scary when you want to be! Please, Sam?”

He sighed again. He wanted to say no, but with kids involved, he’d never get that off his conscience. “Fine,” he relented, climbing out of bed and limping towards his bathroom. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

 

Upon arriving at Child at Play, Sam understood immediately why Becky had been alarmed by the presence of the stranger in the trench coat. The man didn’t look threatening, exactly, but his coat was open and hanging loose on his shoulders and the suit beneath rumpled and a size too large, making him immediately seem disheveled at best. His bright blue tie was twisted around so it faced the wrong way, and he stood staring at displays of video games and controllers with an irritated frown. He carried a camera in his right hand, and Sam could see that it was a very old model Polaroid. 

He had to pause a moment in his assessment of the situation just to stop and think, wow, Polaroid, haven’t seen one of those in a while.

Becky was watching wide-eyed from behind the counter as Sam approached the stranger, automatically falling into the defensive stance and step he had used while on the force. 

“Hey, uh… sir?” Sam carefully approached the stranger; he was unsure of how to broach the topic, not wanting to be confused for the officer of the law he no longer was, but the sooner the odd man left, the sooner Sam could escape Becky’s not too subtle ogling and get back to catching up on his sleep.

“Yes?” the man responded. His voice was unexpectedly low, coming as a surprised when faced with a set of widely innocent blue eyes and a mildly polite if not outright friendly expression.

Sam licked his lips. “What… what are you doing here, man?” he asked. Noting the way the stranger’s brow furrowed in confusion, he gestured towards the camera. “The pictures?” Sam supplied.

“Oh!” the stranger said. “Yes, of course. This must look awfully unusual. I simply needed to conduct some research.”

“Research?” Sam echoed.

The man nodded a head of tousled dark locks. “Yes,” he agreed. “Technology has advanced well beyond my understanding these days, and it seemed better to get an idea of how these things worked rather than to continually purchase them. I will, of course, be purchasing several items, for further research, if that was your concern?”

Sam blinked several times, trying to follow the odd man’s logic before shaking his head as if to clear it. “The camera, man,” he repeated. “You’re taking pictures in a toy store full of kids. Don’t you realize how that looks?”

The trench-coated man’s frown deepened. “Oh dear,” he relented, glancing down at the Polaroid photographs rapidly developing in his hand. “I hadn’t even thought,” he said, shaking his head. “I suppose I best take my leave. Would you be so kind as to help me bring one of each of these items to the young lady at the counter?”

Sam gaped at the area where the man had gestured, noting that the shelf held all of the newest consoles from the major gaming companies, as well as the many peripherals and accessories each system would require.

“One of each?” Sam repeated.

“Yes, if it would not be too much trouble,” the man agreed, arms already full.

Shrugging to himself, Sam started to gather more of items – anything so long as it would get the weird guy to leave the store.

Becky eyed them both strangely as they piled the items on the counter before her, finally hissing out, “Sam! What is going on?” and earning only a shrug in response.

“He’s leaving, isn’t he?” Sam replied.

 

Before she had a chance to respond, a shaky voice called out, “Everyone on the floor!” A few children shrieked and ran, others following the shouted command, and Sam turned away from the pile of electronics to see a wild-eyed man with a wiry beard, wearing a bathrobe and brandishing a handgun.

“Give me all the money from the register and no one gets hurt!” he announced.

From behind the towering stack of video game components, Becky peeked her head out and frowned. “Chuck? What are you doing here?” she demanded.

“Damn it, Becky, I’m trying to rob you!” he replied, face screwed up into a pout. “You shouldn’t even be here, you don’t work weekends!”

She crossed her arms over her chest. “I’m picking up extra hours,” she replied. “Besides, you can’t rob us! Sam’s a cop!”

Sam groaned. “Not a cop, Becky!” he reminded.

“This is Sam?” Chuck asked, waving his gun towards the other man. “This is the guy you dumped me for? God, no wonder I couldn’t compete, he’s like seven feet tall and pretty!”

“Uh… thanks?” Sam replied. “But, dude, we’re not… me and Becky, we went out once, we’re not a… a… thing.”

Chuck frowned, opened his mouth to reply and then stopped again. “Don’t distract me!” he finally spat out. “I’m trying to rob the place! And who is the weirdo in the trench coat?”

“Hello Chuck,” the stranger called in greeting.

“Not helping!” Sam told him, exasperated. Turning back towards Chuck, the former policeman sighed. “Look, Chuck, whatever this is about, you don’t wanna commit a felony here, man.”

Becky snorted from behind the counter. “He is not going to rob us,” she called out.

“I am too!” Chuck shouted back. “Look, I’ve got a gun and everything,” he added, waving his revolver in the air.

The stranger beside Sam frowned. “You really should not be so careless with your firearm,” he said. “There are children present.”

“Oh he’s not going to shoot anyone,” Becky said dryly. “That is probably his Indiana Jones prop replica gun. I’m just surprised he opened the packaging to get it out.”

“It is not!” Chuck protested wildly. “It’s a real gun, it was my dad’s!” He continued to wave it as he spoke and seemed utterly surprised when it fired, the force of the shot knocking him back into a display of cell phone cases next to where he had been standing.


	2. Chapter 2

It took Sam several seconds to really register the fact that he was on his back on the ground. It took a few seconds further before Sam realized that he couldn’t move; he tried his arms and legs, then his fingers and toes, and when neither budged, he opened his mouth and tried to speak, but only produced a weak gurgling sound that brought the taste of blood to his lips. That was the point when the world came back to him, and Sam realized that Becky was screaming and the strange man in the trench coat was knelt over him, cradling his head. The blood was coming to his mouth faster now and spilling over his lips, breathing becoming a struggle as the world became a little hazy, and Sam realized that he was dying.

“Can you hold on, Sam?” the stranger asked. “Becky has called the paramedics, they should arrive here very soon.”

Dean, Sam thought. Someone has to tell Dean. But he couldn’t speak, could only stare up at the stranger’s wide blue eyes and wonder if he would get to see his mother again, when he was dead.

“You can’t hold on, can you?” the strange man said with a frown, even as the wails of sirens echoed in the air. “You will not die today, Sam Winchester,” he said gravely, and Sam felt himself being filled with a soothing warmth before the world faded away to nothing.

 

He wasn’t sure how much time had passed before he was being shaken hard and his eyes flew open, air rushing in to fill his lungs in great gulping breaths. He sat up with a start, sticky with rapidly drying blood, but feeling better than he had in years, finding himself hit with an embrace so strong and fierce that it nearly knocked him back down.

“Whoa, Becky, gotta breathe here!” he groaned.

“But you weren’t!” she responded, seemingly uncaring of the blood now smeared across her work uniform, face still red and wet with tears. “You weren’t breathing, Sam, you were dead!”

“Wanna tell me what the hell went on here, Sammy?” a familiar voice interrupted, and he glanced up to see his older brother standing over him, face a mixture of relief and confusion. Sam quickly scrambled to his feet, pushing Becky away with a significant amount of effort, and quickly threw his arms around his brother.

“Jesus Christ, Dean, is it good to see you,” he said through a heavy exhale.

Dean laughed and patted his brother on the back. “Uh, yeah, not to say the same, here, Sam, but seriously, what the hell?” He pulled back and looked his brother over, eyes narrowing at all of the blood but finding no visible wounds.

“I… Chuck, he was waving his gun, it just went off,” Sam said, glancing around, at a loss to explain. “I… Dean, he shot me. I was shot.” He reached a hand up to his throat, finding a tiny indentation there that was still tender to the touch.

Dean squinted at his brother. “Maybe he winged you,” he offered.

“No, Dean, really, he was!” Becky broke in, tugging on the policeman’s arm as she spoke. Even as the scene took on a more sedate tone, with police and paramedics milling about, Becky was still crying; she was no longer hysterical, but the tears continued to fall down her cheeks, her eyes remaining wide and frightened.

It was only then that Dean realized the girl was in shock, and something far more than a brief scare and a little mix-up had to have gone on in the toy store.

“Hey, Jo?” he called to one of the paramedics crouched nearby. “You wanna come over here, take a look at Becky? I think she could use a once-over.”

The slim blonde knelt beside the counter straightened, stripping off her latex gloves and regarding the other woman, who stood shivering between Sam and Dean, with an arched eyebrow.

“Alright then,” Jo agreed, stepping over a few scattered video game parts and a quickly congealing splash of blood on the linoleum floor. “Not like Mr. Comatose over there is going to be needing me anytime soon, anyway,” she added, gesturing towards the trench-coated man who was seemingly passed out on the floor.

Dean frowned. “Wait, who the hell is that?!”

 

Jo and her partner, Jess, had found nothing wrong with the stranger from the toy store beyond the fact that he was somehow sound asleep and refused to awaken. His pupils reacted positively to light – “Holy blue eyes, Batman”, Jo had breathed during the initial check – he was breathing easily and on his own, he even flinched when his fingertip was pricked for a blood glucose test, but never woke. 

His condition didn’t change after he was brought to the hospital. The neurologist on duty, a Dr. Pamela Barnes that Dean had crossed paths with on more than one occasion, when bringing in cases of overdose and hit and runs, was at a loss, though seemed cheerful enough about it.

“The best we can tell,” the doctor explained, “Is that our Mystery Man is in deep sleep – technically, he’s comatose, but we’re not seeing any of the usual signs associated with that condition. His blood-ox is fine, his blood sugar is fine, he doesn’t need a ventilator, there’s no sign of brain injury… honestly, Dean, this is the weirdest thing you’ve brought me. For now, we’ll keep him under observation, cath and g-tube him if it lasts too long. Any idea who he is?”

Dean, still in uniform though off the clock for several hours by then, shrugged. “We took prints when we brought him in, but nothing’s come back so far. Nothing in his pockets, no ID.”

“Oh, that reminds me!” Pamela said, crossing the room to set the Styrofoam cup of coffee she clutched in her hand down on the patient’s unused bedside table, along with the copy of his chart she had been carrying. Dean made no secret of watching her as she went; with wavy dark hair, a tendency towards tight blouses and short skirts beneath her lab coat, and a heavily flirtatious nature, the good doctor and the detective had played at flirting for years by then, though it all remained a strictly look but don’t touch arrangement.

“We found this clutched in his hand,” she went on, retrieving a plastic bag from her coat pocket once her hands were free. Holding out, Dean could see it contained a single spent bullet that undoubtedly came from Chuck’s gun.

 

Dean stayed long after the doctor made her way out of the quiet hospital room to continue her rounds, absently playing with the bagged bullet in his hands and staring at the comatose man, trying to piece out what had happened the day before. Sam had explained some of it, why he was at Child at Play, what the stranger had been doing that had warranted his arrival and Becky’s concerns, and everything that had happened up until Chuck’s gun had fired.

Becky had filled in the rest; she spoke of Sam being hit, falling to the ground. She spoke of Sam spitting up blood, of more pouring from the wound in his throat. She told Dean that it had been clear that Sam couldn’t move, that the bullet must have hit his spinal cord, because he hadn’t even moved his long limbs from where they had fallen. She had been the one to call the police, while the stranger had crouched over the Sam, seemingly trying to keep him conscious while Becky wailed into the phone and Chuck sat on the floor, staring in horror at what had happened.

Things had gotten so hectic that no one even noticed when the stranger passed out dead away on the floor.

The blood at the scene backed up Becky’s tale; the DNA testing would take a few days to come back from the lab, but preliminary results had shown it to be A- blood, the same type as Sam, and uncommon enough for it not to be a random coincidence. But Sam was fine; Dean had made sure Jo and Jess checked him out at the scene and still had him brought to the hospital for a follow-up. He wasn’t anemic, he had no visible injuries apart from the strange mark on his throat, and he claimed that he was feeling better than he had in ages. It just didn’t make sense.

Clearly something strange was going on, and the man in the hospital bed was the key to figuring it all out.

 

The hours passed slowly. Dr. Barnes glanced into the room once or twice as the bright rays of noontime sun splashed across the floor begin to dim into late afternoon and evening, but said nothing, only raised her eyebrows as the detective sitting vigil at the stranger’s bedside. She knew Dean well enough to know that he couldn’t let things go once they sparked his interest; she didn’t know how deep this one ran.

Any other case, Dean would have let it go, left it for the folks in the lab to deal with on follow up. Anyone else, and Dean wouldn’t have been quite so invested. But Sam was involved, and that was where Dean drew the line.

Some people on the force thought Dean had been disappointed when his younger brother had turned in his badge and enrolled in law school; few knew that it was Dean that had been pushing Sam to do it all along. When a house fire claimed their mother’s life not too long after Sam was born and their father threw himself into his job to help ignore the pain of the loss, it was left to Dean to take care of his younger brother. He practically raised the younger man on his own and had grown wildly protective; proud as he was that Sam had chosen to follow in his footsteps and join the force, the idea of his younger brother being on the front line every day had kept eating at Dean until he began pushing Sam towards the other side of law enforcement that the younger man had long professed interest in. 

Truth was, he was proud of Sam, and damn thankful he didn’t have to worry about the kid so much anymore. At least, he thought he didn’t. Walking into that toy store today, there was a moment where everything went silent and Dean thought his knees were going to give out beneath him. Sam was there, splayed out on the ground and covered in blood, eyes closed and body unmoving, and Dean couldn’t move. He couldn’t fucking breathe until he saw Sammy take a breath and sit up.

Then Dean played it off, laughing like he always did when things got a little too real, a little too intense. But something had happened there, something weird, and this man in the hospital bed, whoever he was, would aid in explaining that away. Dean just had to know.

 

The stars were out when Dean stood to stretch his aching back, sore and cramped from so many hours spent in an uncomfortable hospital room chair. He wanted to be first to speak with the man when he woke, but he had already wasted a day waiting. There wasn’t too much of a local crime rate, but it didn’t do well for his department’s lead detective to be wasting a day at a stranger’s bedside. He had just reached to pull his coat from the hanger by the door when the first sound came from the hospital bed and Dean’s head snapped back towards the stranger.

The bedclothes rustled as the stranger struggled to sit up, clearly too weak to manage it on his own. Dean moved so quickly that he dropped his coat, forgotten on the linoleum floor, and reached over to lift the bed with the remote that sat on the bedside table.

The stranger sighed heavily. “Thank you,” he said, voice seemingly gruff from disuse. “May I ask where I am?”

“Mercy Medical,” Dean supplied, returning to his recently vacated seat and pulling it closer to the bed. “Been here since yesterday. You’ve been out for about twenty-four hours now.”

The man sighed, reaching up a hand to push through his dark hair before swiping it across his face to rub at his eyes. When he turned then to look at Dean fully in the low glow of the bed lamp mounted to the wall that the detective had turned on hours before, he cocked his head to the side and frowned.

“More than a day?” he asked.

Dean hadn’t gotten a good look at the man, not really. The slack expressionless face of a man unconscious is no indication of what they really looked like, not if they were so deeply asleep that they made no noise, didn’t mumble or sigh. In waking, the life had been brought back to the stranger’s face, and Dean found himself speechless when faced with the intense gaze that stared back at him.

Holy blue eyes is right, he thought, harkening back to Jo’s off the cuff remark at the robbery scene just the day before. Dean had seen film stars or models in magazines with eyes that seemed to spark to life so brightly, but he’d always thought it a trick of the camera or some computer work done after the fact that made them seem so lively and warm, and even those paled in comparison to what was before him. There was an ethereal quality to the stranger’s eyes, shining cornflower blue and framed by dark lashes. He had a strong jaw and just the right amount of dark stubble, lips that looked pink and plush and perhaps the slightest bit chapped, and that maddeningly messy tousle of dark hair sticking out any which way it desired.

Dean found himself quite suddenly at a loss for words, opening his mouth to speak but finding nothing, eyebrows arching up as he paused to lick his lips and start again. He cleared his throat.

“Yeah, since yesterday afternoon,” he said, a little more gruffly than he intended. “I’m Dean… I mean, I’m Detective Winchester, with the local PD. We’re… we’re trying to nail down what happened yesterday afternoon at Child at Play, before you conked out.”

The man in the bed regarded him for a long moment before replying. “Oh,” he said softly. “You’re Sam’s brother.”

Dean frowned. “How did you know that?” he demanded.

The man in the bed ignored his question. “Is Sam well? I did what I could, before I… ‘conked out’, as you say.”

“Yeah, Sammy’s fine,” Dean relented, his suspicion of the stranger somewhat mitigated by the man’s apparent concern for Sam. “He’s… hey, you got a name, buddy? We have you down as a John Doe.”

“My name is Castiel,” the man replied mildly. He looked down at his hands and flexed his fingers for a moment, as though testing their responses, and frowned. 

“So glad to see our patient is awake and alert,” a voice broke in. Dr. Barnes sauntered into the room, hands on her hips and a frown on her face. “Thanks so much for letting me know, Detective Winchester.”

Dean gave her a sheepish grin. “Sorry, Doc,” he said. “Guess I was a little anxious to talk to the guy everyone is telling me saved my little brother.”

“Mmhmm,” came the doctor’s noncommittal reply. “Does our hero have a name?”

“Castiel,” the man supplied.

Dr. Barnes smiled. “Castiel, huh? Pretty fitting if you ask me, angel-eyes.” Dean snorted; and people said HE was too much of a flirt. “Detective, I think it best if you head on out for the night, give our patient time to recuperate,” the doctor spoke up. 

“Oh, come on, Pam!” Dean began to protest, but was met with a resolute frown.

“Castiel will be able to speak with you again tomorrow, but for now, he needs his rest. Understand, Winchester?” 

“Yeah, fine, whatever,” Dean grumbled, rising to leave.

“Good,” the doctor replied. “Now get your fine ass the hell out of my hospital and get some sleep. You look like shit.”

Dean waved off her instructions and headed out the door, pausing to grab his coat from where it had fallen.

“Well, Mr. Castiel, how are you feeling?” he heard Pamela ask.

The man in the bed frowned a moment before his expression became frankly alarmed. “Hungry,” he admitted, as Dean stepped out into the corridor.


	3. Chapter 3

Dean had no intention of going home for the night, despite the doctor’s orders. Instead, he piloted his car along the icy slick road, heading towards the station house. He wanted to check in with Kevin in the lab to see if they had the DNA results from the scene processed as yet, and to see if anything had come through AFIS on the fingerprints they had taken from the stranger – or, Castiel, as he called himself.

The streets were crowded still, late as it was, but that was no surprise. With only weeks left until Christmas, it seemed everyone was out and about doing their holiday shopping, picking up trees and lights for their homes, and just enjoying what the season had to offer. Dean had even found himself caught up in the holiday spirit, and had very nearly bought a Christmas tree for the first time since… ever, really.

After his mother’s death, the holidays weren’t so much celebrated in the Winchester household as they were simply ignored. No trees and no lights, though Dean had always made sure ‘Santa’ visited for Sam, and his father even surprised them both a few times with gifts he neither wrapped or acknowledged. In spite of those drab and dreary years, Dean still held fast to the few happy holiday memories he had, memories of his mother, of hot chocolate and a glittering tree, of walking down the blocks bundled up against the cold to see the shining light displays the neighborhood had put together. Even now, a breath of the frigid air could take him back there, to feeling his mittened hand clutched in his mother’s, cheeks rosy with the cold as they oohed and ahhed over each holiday display.

The truth was that he loved it, then and now. He just never had time for it these days. A real tree would quickly dry out, with Dean kept away from home on cases for long hours and sometimes even days at a time. And there was no way he’d use some fake plastic tree perfumed to smell like pine, not in his house! Even if he got a real tree and could somehow manage to keep it watered regularly, he would still need to buy lights and ornaments and all of that, and who had the time, really? Next year, he would promise himself, year after year, but Dean remained confident that one day, one Christmas, he would finally work it all out.

He picked up the Styrofoam cup out of the holder between the seats in his car and grimaced at the chilly taste of day old coffee long forgotten. No matter; he would get a fresh cup of the station house swill, once he got inside. It wouldn’t taste any better, but at least it would be warm.

The station house was decorated inside and out with gaudy lights and ancient wreaths and garlands that went back even before Dean’s father’s time with the department. A battered plastic Santa sat beside the reception desk, where Dean paused to cast a smile at Tracy, a younger woman who usually worked in dispatch but somehow got wrangled into desk duty now and again.

“Singer pull you for reception again, Trac?” he asked cheerfully.

The girl crossed her arms over her chest and glared. “Krissy went after that guy they brought in for that 10-44 over on Maple Drive with her stapler. I’m stuck here until Bobby says she’s had enough time to cool her heels.”

Dean couldn’t help but chuckle; Krissy was one semester of college away from joining the academy and already had a reputation as a fireball. He could only imagine what it would be like when the girl finally got her badge. He flashed Tracy what he knew to be his most charming smile.

“Works for me, if I get to see that gorgeous smile of yours on my way in every day,” he said, and though Tracy rolled her eyes at his words, she still broke into a smile.

“Oh, stuff it, Winchester!” she called with a laugh, throwing a balled up piece of paper at his backside as he passed.

 

Out in the open work room of the station, Dean got his coffee and headed towards his desk, surprised to see his moose of a younger brother seated at his desk, talking animatedly with Dean’s partner of seven months, Benny. Dean had been skeptical of Benny at the beginning, a Louisiana transplant and a bear of a man, as tall as Dean and a bit wider in frame. A dedicated father of three wild little things and a downright devoted husband, Benny had made the move from the crime-ridden streets of New Orleans to give his family a safer placed to grow – and grow they did, with baby number four already on the way. Dean had been surprised at how well they got along, and found himself glad that he and Benny had been assigned together after Sam had left the force.

“Aren’t you the one always reminding people that you’re not a cop anymore?” he said by way of greeting, knocking Sam’s giant feet off of his desk.

“Dean, where have you been all day?” Sam replied. “We’ve been trying to call you.”

“At Mercy,” Dean replied, taking his desk chair as Sam vacated and moved to a side seat. “They got rules about cell phones there, you know. Been turned off. But hey, Sleeping Beauty woke up.”

“Aww, Dean, did you give the nice man in the trench coat a big ol’ kiss?” Benny teased.

Dean flashed him a wolfish grin. “Not yet, but give me time,” he responded, earning a chuckle from Benny and a groan from Sam.

“Really, Dean?” Sam responded prissily. “Isn’t this guy like a material witness?”

“Yeah, but he’s a hot material witness,” Dean responded, earning another laugh from Benny. Dean may not have really dated a man before, but he made it no secret that he was an equal opportunity appreciator of eye candy, and Dr. Barnes had been right on target in calling the man “angel-eyes”.

“Dude, there are more important things going on around here than you trying to get laid,” Sam interrupted. 

“He’s got you there, brother,” Benny agreed. He reached for a pale green file folder on the desk, handing it off to Dean as he spoke. “Prints got a hit in AFIS for your John Doe.”

“Castiel,” Dean supplied.

Benny arched an eyebrow. “Say again?”

“Castiel,” Dean repeated. “That’s that the guy said his name was.”

“Yeah, well get this,” Sam said, reaching to open the folder in Dean’s hand so he could see the paperwork inside. “Came back to a Reverend James Novak, arrested for solicitation, and booked by the local PD in Pontiac, Illinois. Turned out the guy was honest to god just giving the lady a ride to the homeless shelter at his church. Charges were completely dropped.”

Dean sipped at his coffee and browsed the case file, words blurry and smudged from the fax machine that had printed them. The man in the grainy black and white mug shot photo indeed looked to be their mysterious Castiel, if a few years younger.

“Yeah, this is our guy,” Dean said with a nod. “Must have some kind of amnesia thing going on. Long way from Pontiac.”

“Look at the date on the case file,” Benny instructed, reaching over to tape the top of the page in front of Dean.

“James Novak was picked up on November 3, 1957,” Sam broke in excitedly. “He died in 1963. Was in a car wreck, lingered in a vegetative state for a couple months before his family decided to give up and pull the plug. Dean, the guy in the hospital, he should be dead, over fifty years now!”

“That’s not…” Dean began.

“Possible?” a new voice filled in. “Tell me about it.” 

 

Kevin Tran was a PhD candidate who had somehow gotten roped into running the lab at the local police department. As far as Dean was concerned, the kid was too smart to be wasting his time in a small town like this, but for all of his griping, Kevin seemed happy in the job – as happy as an overworked overachiever fueled by coffee and microwave burritos could be, anyway.

“There’s a lot of that going around,” he announced, dropping a weighty lab report onto Dean’s desk. “Survey says, blood at the Child at Play robbery scene belongs to one Samuel Henry Winchester, formerly of our local boys in blue. All of it. The blood on Sam’s clothes, on Becky, on the ground, and on the weirdo in the trench coat. Too much blood, actually, for Sam to be sitting here alive and kicking without having had a dozen or so transfusions, so thanks a lot, guys. I don’t know what the hell you did, but now I have some totally anomalous data to report.”

“We didn’t do anything!” Dean shouted after Kevin as he trudged off towards his lab, muttering under his breath as he went.

Dean turned wide eyes back towards his brother. “What the hell, man?!”

Sam shrugged, eyes wide. “I don’t know!” he replied. “I told you, Dean. I told you something weird was going on. Chuck shot me, man, I know he did, but for some reason I am still here, and the 87 years young talking corpse you got over there at Mercy has something to do with it.

Dean shook his head, reaching into his bottom desk drawer for the whiskey bottle and plastic glass he kept there for days just like this. He poured himself two fingers and slugged it back quickly, offering the bottle to both other men before tucking it back away at their refusal.

“Well,” he said after a long moment. “Dude looks pretty good for a dead guy.”


	4. Chapter 4

Dean managed to calm the others down enough to convince them all to go home, certain that they would get their answers in the morning. It was that certainty that led him to the hospital a little past nine in the morning, whistling as he went, until Dr. Barnes cornered him just outside of the elevators on the seventh floor and pushed him back inside, saying, “We need to talk!”

She punched the button for the second sub-basement and turned a key off her lanyard into a lock there on the control panel to stop the elevator from stopping anywhere else as it made its journey downward.

“Uh, Pam?” Dean asked. “Why are we going to the morgue?”

“Because, I have a bone to pick with you, Winchester, and I don’t want to do it where my entire staff can hear it!”

The elevator let them out beneath the flickering fluorescent lights of the morgue, and Dr. Barnes proceeded to drag Dean down the corridor and past the morgue attendant, Garth, who gave them both a cheery wave and a grin as they went by. Once entrenched in the stillness of the morgue room, Dr. Barnes turned on her heel and shoved Dean hard in the chest.

“God damn it, Dean!” she hissed out. “What the hell are you doing, bringing me some whackadoo?!”

“What?” Dean responded, hands up in surrender even as the doctor slapped at his chest. “What whackadoo? And is that a clinical term?”

“Mr. X! John Doe!” Dr. Barnes replied. “The sweet and charming man with the great body and gorgeous face up in the neuro unit, currently believing he is a god damned actual angel of the freaking lord!”

“Shit, Cas?” Dean asked. “Castiel? He’s crazy?”

“The man is endearing as hell but he’s nuttier than my Aunt Elsa’s Christmas fruit cake that I’ve had in the lounge for a week and nobody’s been brave enough to touch but Garth,” Pam said with a frown, crossing her arms over her chest. Expression softening, she sighed. “Damn it Dean, I don’t want to do it, but you know I can’t keep him here. He’s taking up a bed in neuro and we have limited space as it is.”

Dean frowned. “Well what do you suggest, Pam? Guy’s still a witness to the shooting, I don’t know if Chuck’s even been arraigned yet, we can’t just cut him loose.”

“He keeps telling people he’s an angel, Dean, you know what I have to do,” Pam warned, shaking her head. It was clear from the worry in her expression that she didn’t want to throw the man out of her ward, but didn’t have much of a choice.

“Behavioral health unit?” Dean suggested hopefully.

Pam shook her head. “We’re packed, Dean. Full up on all wards. Besides, we don’t have the staff needed for treatment of dissociative identity disorder, or whatever the hell he has.”

“Catholic charities?” Dean asked. “They got a facility twenty or so miles outside of town, don’t they?”

Again, Pam shook her head. “They’re mainly dealing with substance abuse now, and they never take in people with religious delusions. Call it a conflict of interest.”

“Missouri Mosely is still running that group home on the west side of town, isn’t she?” Dean offered. Missouri was a hard-ass but a sweetheart when it came down to it; perhaps she’d break a few of her own rules and take the guy in, just for a little while.

“Social services sent her a runaway who came in with frostbite last week,” Pam told him with a sigh. “Face it, Dean. We’re not a big city, we don’t have a lot of places for this kind of thing. The only place I know with an open bed…”

“Don’t say it,” Dean said, holding up a hand.

“Is the county mental health facility,” Pam finished with a sigh.

“Son of a bitch,” Dean groaned, turning to slam a hand down on a stainless steel table nearby. 

He knew the system wasn’t perfect, and knew a lot of facilities fell through the cracks, but at the heart of things, Dean always hoped that the actual care workers tried to make the places bearable. That wasn’t the way of things at Glenwood Springs. So far as Dean knew, the hospital had once been privately owned, but had been taken over by the state sometime in the early 1940’s, and had just gone straight to hell since then. The place was ruled over now by a Dr. Lilith Adams, a gorgeous blonde with a mean streak that could even make Dean shiver in his boots. They always seemed to pass inspection when public health rolled in for a checkup, but Dean had heard too many horror stories of what went on there to ever trust sending in a patient.

“There just aren’t any other options, Dean,” Pam said with a sigh. “Look, I don’t want to do this, okay? Especially this time of year, you know how they say that crazy bitch Lilith gets around the holidays. But I don’t really have any other options.”

Dean turned back towards her, an idea sparking in his mind. “I think… maybe there is another option.”

 

State law allowed, in cases of emergency or when no other options were available, for individual police officers of appropriate rank and title to take a material witness into personal protective custody for the duration of an investigation and ensuing trial. Quizzing his brother on the legal mumbo-jumbo he had been studying had made Dean aware of this law, which was how he ended up with a smiling dead guy and/or angel of the lord sitting in the passenger seat of his car, looking out the windows at holiday displays and seeming altogether quite pleased, even though he wore only a spare set of maroon hospital scrubs that Pamela had been able to scare up for him before discharge.

“Now this isn’t permanent,” Dean warned, raising a hand off the wheel to gesture at Castiel. “This is just until we get all of this… whatever this is… straightened out, and then we’ll find someplace decent to get you the help you need.”

“Of course, Dean,” Castiel replied seriously.

Dean glanced over at him before turning his gaze back towards the road. “I guess we should get you some clothes or something… I got a pull-out sofa bed you can use for now, but we’ll need to grab some pillows and blankets, I don’t really keep extra around.”

Castiel nodded. “Whatever you think is best,” he agreed.

Stopping at a red light, Dean sighed and scrubbed a hand across his face, glancing back over to his companion. “What the hell am I doing here, Cas?” he asked, more to himself than to the man seated beside him. “Am I nuts or what?”

Castiel cocked his head to the side and squinted, regarding Dean for a long moment before smiling gently. “I think we will both know the answer soon enough. For now, I suggest you accelerate. The light has changed back to green.”

 

Dean was waiting outside the dressing room area at the local thrift store while Castiel tried on jeans and t-shirts Dean was fairly certain he had donated himself the year prior when Sam finally caught up with him. Figuring his life had already spiraled into Wonderland, he decided to go ahead and explain the situation to Sam, who regarded him with a look making it clear that he felt his older brother was just as much a candidate for Glenwood Springs as the wannabe angel in the dressing room.

“What are you doing here, Dean?” Sam said, lips pursed in a disgruntled expression.

Dean’s green eyes went wide and he shook his head. “I don’t know, Sam, okay?” he said. “I don’t even know. I just know I can’t send this guy to Glenwood, man. They’d eat him alive in there.” 

Sam nodded, agreeing with that much. He had gone to the hospital in search of his brother and the man who had, apparently, saved his life, and ran into Dr. Barnes, getting a full briefing of the situation, along with a few frisky pinches to his ass for good measure. Dean was never much of a bleeding heart for these sort of hopeless cases, but Sam knew where his brother was coming from on this one, at least. It would be heartless to send a kind soul into the circle of hell that was Lilith Adams’ domain, particularly so close to the holidays.

“I get that, but your place? Is that even safe?” Sam hissed, hoping the stranger wouldn’t hear him. “Why don’t you as Bobby if we can keep him in lockup or something? Until we get this all figured out?”

Dean frowned, surprised at his brother’s callousness. “Really, Sam? Dude saves your life and you wanna toss him in the drunk tank for a month?”

Sam’s eyebrows arched nearly to his hairline as he crossed his arms over his chest.  
“So you believe me now? You think he saved my life?”

Blowing out a sigh, Dean groaned. “I don’t know what I think, okay?” he replied huffily. “All I know is I’m not sending Clarence into Bedlam a few weeks before Christmas, and my sofa bed is the only other decent place I can think to stick him.”

The battered wooden door of the changing room opened and the barefooted apparent angel stepped out, flexing his toes on the ragged red carpet. He wore a pair of dusty black jeans and a long-sleeved white Henley beneath a black t-shirt bearing the logo of a metal band Dean had worshipped since junior high.

“Does this look alright, Dean?” Castiel asked.

“Uh… hey Castiel,” Sam said by way of awkward greeting.

Castiel turned kind eyes towards Sam, and he smiled. “Sam. It’s good to see you again,” he said, before turning his attention back to Dean, clearly waiting for an answer.

Dean’s mouth had fallen open just slightly when Castiel exited the dressing room, and his jaw bobbed a moment as his eyes flicked from ears to ankles and back again before he nodded.  
“Fine,” he said, voice cracking just slightly. Clearing his throat, he repeated, “Fine,” and added, “Yeah, it looks great, Cas. We’ll take all that and the other pair of jeans, and a couple more t-shirts. Should probably find you some shoes too.”

Holding aloft a plastic bag that Dean hadn’t even noticed he was carrying, Sam cut in with, “Think we got that covered. Evidence released your clothes this morning, Castiel. I picked it up when I was checking by the station for Dean. Your suit is pretty much ruined… what with all the blood… but looks like your coat and shoes were spared.”

Castiel’s smile grew broader, sweet little lines etching out at the corners of his eyes. “Oh! I’ll be very glad to have my coat back,” he said.

“Great!” Dean said, a little too quickly. “Here, put your shoes and your coat on, you can wear the new stuff out, and me and Sam’ll get the rest bagged up. Then we can grab lunch, alright Cas?”

“Of course, Dean. Whatever you say,” the man replied, heading back towards the dressing room as Dean shoved his belongings into his hands.

“Dean!” Sam hissed. “This conversation isn’t over.”

Dean glared at his brother. “Later, Sam.”


	5. Chapter 5

They had lunch at Dean’s favorite diner, which had once been Dean’s favorite bar, before the owner got tired of pitching drunken brawlers out on their ass with her bare hands and her daughter got tired of tending to their wounds once someone had scraped them up off the sidewalk. Ellen Harvelle was damn proud of her EMT daughter, Jo, and decided after a couple of decades running the rowdiest roadhouse this side of the state line that she’d put the skills she learned making hot wings and fries for the regulars to better use and open a diner instead. 

The three men shoved into a back booth and Sam and Dean watched in awe as Castiel packed away two burgers and three orders of fries in short order, a sight Dean hadn’t seen since Sam’s freshman year growing spurt, when he had nearly eaten them out of house and home. 

Noticing their stares, Castiel gave an apologetic shrug. “I’m sorry,” he spoke, after taking a long sip on a glass of lemon-lime soda and dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “I don’t… eat often.”

“Not a problem, Cas,” Dean replied with a shrug, earning another eyebrows-raised glance from Sam – just one more of what he had been getting all afternoon – when he pushed his untouched chocolate milkshake towards the man wearing the new thrifted clothes and his old trench coat. “I guess we owe you big anyway, right Sammy?”

“Huh?” Sam replied, glancing up from his picked-over salad. Dean glared in his general direction before he caught on and said, “Oh! Right, yeah, we do, I mean especially me, Cas, I mean… how do I even thank you?”

Castiel turned to survey the younger Winchester brother and took a long moment to regard him, taking in his shaggy brown hair, lanky limbs, and the ever-present kind and hopeful expression on his face before responding.  
“I had not intended to be at that particular place, Sam,” he said slowly, “So I can only gather that it was intended by the higher order that I should be there when I was needed.”

His words took Sam by surprise. “Higher order?” he echoed.

Castiel nodded seriously. “I am sure by this time, your doctor friend will have told you that I revealed to her my true nature: that I am an angel of the Lord. I cannot say for certain that your survival was ordained by God himself, but… well, to put it into perspective, I had just enough grace left to restore your body and health before depleting it entirely, Sam. Even I do not believe in coincidences that strong.”

“Your ‘grace’?” Dean cut in, ignoring for the moment that Castiel seemed to imply that God had sent an angel to save his brother’s life. “What’s that? And what do you mean that it’s depleted?”

Castiel took another sip of his soda before responding. “God bestows upon each of his angels a certain degree of heavenly grace, a source of light and power far beyond human understanding. It can be used in many ways, not the least of which is to heal, but it can run down if used in great expense. Sadly, Sam was more ill than I had even realized, and once his immediate injuries were healed, I felt I should make him whole.” He paused again and turned towards Sam with a serious expression. “Your bones will trouble you no more, Sam.”

Sam’s jaw dropped, even while his brother stared at him in confusion.

“Sam?” Dean asked, getting no response.

“How… how did you even know…?” Sam sputtered at Castiel.

“I could sense the imperfections,” Castiel replied simply, as though it should have been obvious to anyone. “You are a good man. You have a good heart, and a kind soul. It was the least I could do, to lift that burden from you.”

“Sam, what the hell is he talking about?” Dean demanded. It seemed as though Castiel knew something about his brother’s health that he didn’t, and it was making him more and more anxious as the seconds ticked by without explanation.

“The reason I agreed to leave the force,” Sam began slowly, regarding his brother warily, “Wasn’t so much that you convinced me as… well. My knee was hurting, right? Like, a lot. A lot more than it should have been, and I hadn’t done anything to hurt it, so I went to the doctor and they found this… bony tumor… thing. It wasn’t a big deal, the biopsy came back fine and they did this injection treatment thing that dissolved it away, but…”

“But what, Sam?” Dean asked, eyes narrowing. He was already furious that his brother had gone through such an ordeal without so much as telling him. He remembered it now easily, when Sam was limping and claimed it was a softball injury or a late night meeting with a coffee table. He hadn’t thought for a moment that his brother had been shielding him from the truth.

Sam sighed. “The doctors said it was indicative of another condition, osteolytic something or other and well, basically… basically I’ll be in a wheelchair probably before I hit forty.”

“Jesus Christ, Sam!” Dean exploded. “Why didn’t you tell me? You shouldn’t have to be shouldering all of this shit on your own! Is there anything we can do to slow it down? Do you need help with your medical bills or anything? Can we…”

“Dean, dude, slow down!” Sam broke in, hands up as though to stop his brother’s ranting. “Look, I’m fine, okay? I feel fine, and I made my peace with it, it really isn’t that big of a deal. I’ll get by okay. I will.”

“As I said, Sam,” Castiel broke in. “You needn’t worry about it any longer. You have been made whole. The disease is gone.”

Both brothers turned to stare at him. Dean’s mind was running a mile a minute, trying to figure out who this guy was and how he knew what had been happening with Sam. Why he might try to exploit that information, and what he might gain from it. For Sam’s part, he only stared in wondrous disbelief, barely allowing himself to hope that the words Castiel was speaking were true.

“Are you serious?” he asked. “I mean, if you are, Castiel, I wouldn’t know how to thank… I mean my God, you… oh shit, I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to say that, I…!”

Castiel chuckled. The beautiful bastard (the name Dean’s mind had chosen to supply at that particular moment) had the nerve to actually laugh as Sam blushed and stumbled over his words, apparently afraid he had blasphemed in front of an angel.

“They are just words, Sam,” Castiel said, shaking his head. “There’s no harm in them.”

“Can we go back to the part where my brother has a debilitating disease and never bothered to tell me?” Dean asked angrily.

“Dude, why are you so upset?” Sam asked. “I’m the one getting crippled here, not you.”

“I do wish you would listen to me,” Castiel said with a sigh.

Exasperated, Dean stood up. “Christ,” he muttered, shaking his head. “Okay, new plan. Sam, get your ass over to Mercy. I’m calling Pam and having her order a full workup on you, I don’t care what it costs, so don’t even start,” he said, stopping Sam in his tracks as he opened his mouth to protest. “Angel-boy, get your leftovers to go, we’re going back to my place and you’re gonna spill. About everything. Until this shit starts making sense.”

They sat and stared at each other in Dean’s living room for what seemed like hours, Castiel tucked into his trench coat on the sofa with Dean sitting across from him in an overstuffed armchair that had seen better days. Dean felt it would almost be like the silly staring contests he used to have with Sam as kids, if not for the way Castiel would blink his (fucking incredible) blue eyes and tilt his head like an inquisitive bird as he regarded Dean. For his part, Dean just stared, unable to find the words to start the conversation he knew they had to have, even if it would send him into a free fall into some kind of Twilight Zone shit that he’d never be able to explain.

It was a good thing he had a case of beer in the fridge; he had an open bottle in front of him, pretty sure he would be needing it.

“So,” Dean said, finally breaking the unbearable silence. “James Novak?”

Castiel smiled softly. “Yes, Jimmy. He was a good man.”

“So you’re saying you’re not him, even though you look exactly the same, have the same fingerprints…?” Dean pressed.

With a soft chuckle, Castiel looked down at his hands. “Yes, I’d wondered at the ink, when I’d woken,” he said, still peering at his hands before glancing back up to Dean. “The good reverend was kind enough to offer up this vessel for my use, after he had passed. I had been tasked with advising him as he gathered his flock, and when it was his time to reap his eternal reward, he gave me this body.”

Dean arched an eyebrow. “So you’re saying you’re an angel in a Jimmy-suit?”

Castiel gave a snort, a gesture that caused his nose to wrinkle up just slightly as he smiled, making Dean’s stomach do a funny little flip-flop he did his best to ignore.  
“In a manner of speaking,” he relented. “I have no corporeal form that the human eye can see, and I am told I use this body quite differently than Jimmy had. His sweet widow, Amelia, has told me that my expressions and ‘body language’ are quite different than her husband. And one small part of my more… formless form, I could say… does seem to come through. Jimmy’s eyes were brown.”

Dean’s mouth had fallen open when he saw the apparent angel actually use finger quotes, something he had never witnessed outside of a film in all of his years. The revelation that the blue of the man’s eyes was related to his angelic form was surprisingly unsurprising, however, and Dean found himself believing the tale just a little more than he should.

“Okay, so you’re Cas-in-a-Jimmy-suit, but what about the rest?” Dean pressed. “I mean why are you even here? You said you didn’t mean to be there, Sam is telling me you were buying out the video game section at the store, and Becky is saying you did a Lazarus trick on Sam, so what the hell, man?” He took a long pull on his beer after he finished, knowing just how crazy the entire conversation sounded.

Leaning back in his seat on the couch, Castiel exhaled a long breath before speaking.  
“It is very likely you will not believe me,” he admitted.

It was Dean’s turn to snort. “Try me, angel-boy.”

“Did you know the world nearly ended in 1963?” Castiel asked in response, causing Dean to go into a slack-jawed stare. “No… no, I thought not. No one did, really. I played a large role in averting that particular apocalypse, and for my work, I was given a reward. There are certain posts that angels fill, to keep up with… human expectation. The angel in a role that, I must admit, I had long coveted, is called Joshua, and he asked to retire after many happy years. For my reward, I was given that post.”

“Right…” Dean said, nodding even though he had no understanding of what Castiel was trying to say. “Okay. So, big war, you get your shiny medal and now you’re what, angel of botched robberies?”

Castiel sighed. He knew that Dean was struggling with his faith – he didn’t blame the man, either, with all he had been through in his brief lifetime. But he knew the next part would be even more difficult for Dean to fully grasp.  
“No,” Castiel relented. “There was Greek bishop in the fourth century or so who garnered a well-loved reputation. So loved, in fact, that after his death, stories of his kindness spread, became mingled with other legends and tales of gods and heroes, until his story was known worldwide in many, many incarnations. There is such a strong belief in the good of this man and love for him that it became something the angels wished to… continue on. So that we may take up the mantle of his good works. To some angels, doing this… work… may see a punishment, though for others, such as myself, it is the greatest honor that could be bestowed. It was doing this work that led me to be at your brother’s side when most needed.”

“You’re not making a whole lot of sense here, Cas,” Dean warned, gesturing with his beer bottle before taking another drink. “I’m a cop, remember? I can tell when people – and angels, I guess – are tap-dancing around what they wanna say. Spit it out, man.”

Castiel frowned, looking so damned worried that it near broke Dean’s heart. He had to admit, he liked the guy. He was kind and friendly, and there was a weird sense of calm and peace that seemed to surround him; Dean couldn’t help but gravitate towards it, feeling a little bit of that same contentedness in the angel’s wake. Plus, he loved all the same greasy diner food as Dean and laughed at all of his stupid jokes. And it didn’t hurt that it was all wrapped up in one hell of a fine package.

“Hey, c’mon,” Dean said, more gently than before. “I’m a big boy here, I can take it. Hit me with your best shot.”

“That bishop I mentioned?” Castiel said carefully. “Dean… it was Saint Nicholas.”


	6. Chapter 6

Sam sat in a thin hospital gown atop an examination table at Mercy Medical, waiting for Dr. Barnes to return with the results of the bevy of tests he’d had that day. She had managed to write the orders and put them through on a rush for Sam; radiology wasn’t busy that day, after all, and though she was primarily a neurologist, everyone knew Dr. Barnes was in the running for chief surgeon when old Doc Benton finally retired, so she had a lot of pull.

She had overseen all of the tests while Sam was poked, prodded, and probably irradiated, through x-rays and bone scans and MRIs and blood tests, and was compiling the full result as he waited, shivering against the subpar heating system on the hospital’s lower floors.

“Hey tall dark and handsome,” Pam spoke with a smile as she entered the room. Sam nodded and pulled the gown a little tighter around him; after all, he knew Pam pretty well.

“Hey doc,” he said, slightest tremor in his voice. He wanted what Castiel had said to be true; he prayed that it was. But he was a realist and he knew he was probably just damning himself to more disappointment. “So, what’s the verdict?”

Pam sat down on a rolling stool, flipping through the report in her hands and shaking her head. “Sam, I don’t even know what to tell you,” she said with a sigh.

Sam lowered his head and nodded. “Yeah, I figured,” he agreed. Hope always came back to bite him in the ass, after all.

“I’ve never seen anything like it,” she went on. “All of the loss of bone density, the cysts, even the scarring from the tumor on your knee… Sam, it’s gone. It’s all gone. If I hadn’t been there for your treatment, I would swear you never had anything wrong with you.”

Sam’s head snapped up in surprise. “What?” he asked, hazel eyes gone wide.

“You are perfectly healthy, Sam. No injury, no disease,” Pam told him, shaking her head. “It is some kind of miracle, and that is not a term I use lightly.”

“That’s not possible,” Sam said, shaking his head. This couldn’t be real. It couldn’t. Because if it were, it would mean that Castiel was what he said that he was. And that his brother had been spending the day checking out an angel’s ass. 

Pam snorted. “You have no idea!” she replied. “It’s bizarre and ungodly and just plain weird, but I couldn’t be happier for you. No wheelchair, Sam. That future is not in your cards, not anymore.”

Sam was at a loss. He pushed his hair back and shook his head. “Are you sure?” he asked.

With a nod, Pam glanced back at his chart. “Absolutely, gorgeous,” she responded. “There is one thing you should know, though.”

There it was: the inevitable consequence. Sam had been waiting for the other shoe to drop ever since he sat up on the floor of that toy store without a bullet wound.  
“What is it?” he asked with a gulp.

“There is considerable bone repair right at your C5 vertebrae,” she told him. “Lining right up with that pretty little permanent love bite you got on your throat. It looks like it was shattered and somehow put itself back together, but don’t you go quoting me on that. A C5 shatter injury would have killed you in seconds.”

Sam let out a slow breath. “Jesus Christ,” he finally spoke.

“You’re telling me,” Pam agreed, shaking her head.

 

“Really?!” Dean shouted, standing up and pacing around his living room. “Really, Cas?!” He was realizing that taking someone a doctor thought needed industrial strength therapy home for the holidays was probably not the best of ideas, and feeling rather put out about it.

“I expended more of my grace healing your brother than I’d intended,” Castiel went on, seemingly oblivious to Dean’s pacing and ranting. “It has left me rather powerless, I’m afraid, and unable to make the journey home. I’ve been praying to my brothers in hopes that they would hear me and help me return, so that we can finish preparing for the holiday.”

“Cas, are you even listening to yourself?” Dean told him. “Do you have any idea how crazy you sound?”

“Of course, I hadn’t meant to end up here, honestly… I didn’t intend to go so far when doing my research, I just somehow ended up here,” Castiel said, ignoring Dean’s response. “I can’t help but think that I was meant to be there, to help Sam, and… to meet you.”

“Cas, you’re a great guy, and all, but you are asking me to believe that you are Santa Claus!” Dean snapped, plunking himself back down in the armchair. “C’mon, man. An angel was bad enough, but freaking Santa?”

“I know this is difficult for you believe, Dean. I only ask that you have faith in me,” Castiel told him, turning a wide puppy-dog glance on Dean that he had to look away from.

Closing his eyes, Dean shook his head. “I don’t believe in Santa Claus, Cas. I’m not an eight year old, and, hell, I didn’t believe even then.”

“Part of you did, Dean. And Sam did,” Castiel answered.

Letting out a hollow, bitter laugh, Dean shook his head. “Of course Sam did,” he replied. “He had a Santa. He had me.”

“It wasn’t always you,” Castiel said gently.

Dean shrugged. “Sure, once in a while, my dad would pull himself out of his drunken stupor and…”

“Do you really believe that, Dean?” Castiel replied. “All of the things Sam wanted so desperately, the things you weren’t able to find or buy… or steal. He believed in me, Dean. He needed to believe, to have that hope. You gave him what you could and I gave him what he needed.”

Dean gaped a long moment before shaking his head. “No, Cas,” he said, almost angrily. “Don’t go there, man. Just… don’t.”

“Roller blades,” Castiel told him.

“What?” Dean said, stopping suddenly.

“Roller blades,” he repeated. “Black roller blades with a blue stripe and green wheels. Sam saw them in a store and you saved up to get them, but you couldn’t find the exact pair or even his size when you finally had the money.”

“He got’em, though,” Dean said softly. “Right size, right pair… he was so excited, man, you should have seen it. I thought, Dad must’ve picked’em up right away, right when Sammy saw’em, or he wouldn’t have… but Dad never acknowledged it, you know? Never… never really said anything…”

“Your father was a good man, Dean, but the holiday season was too painful for him,” Castiel replied. “He wouldn’t have bought the gifts that you couldn’t find, wouldn’t have known what to get.”

“No,” Dean said, shaking his head again.

“Power Ranges action figures,” Castiel said. “They were all sold out when you went to get them, and you couldn’t find them anywhere. You prayed that your dad would have found them. You prayed Dean, and your prayers were heard.”

“Stop. Just stop it, Cas,” Dean said harshly. He couldn’t believe it; he just couldn’t. “Just… no more. Look, you can stay here until we find a better place for you, okay, but no more of this. No more Santa, no more angel, none of it. I don’t want to hear it.”

Castiel sighed. “As you wish,” he agreed.

 

The days passed peaceably after that. Dean did his best to ignore Castiel’s claims of his more unbelievable origins, and the two developed an oddly domestic routine that even Sam was raising eyebrows over. There was a lot of haggling over what – if anything – Chuck would be charged with, as he didn’t actually take any money and Sam walking around uninjured was all the proof his lawyers needed that no one was hurt in the ‘accidental discharge of what was presumed an unloaded weapon’. Dean seemed content to have Castiel camped out in his living room and Castiel seemed content to stay, though Dean did walk in on a few hushed conversations with Sam, who had gone full on believer.

“Why don’t you just… fly back?” Sam had suggested in hushed tones.

“My grace is too depleted, Sam,” Castiel replied, just as quietly. “It takes a great amount of time for it to be restored if I am away from… home. When my brothers retrieve me, it will take mere hours to recharge.”

“So by home, you mean, like… the North Pole?” Sam offered.

Castiel flashed a grin. “Something to that effect, yes, though it exists outside of where humanity can reach it. A place between heaven and earth, really.”

Dean had cleared his throat loudly then, returning to the room with a few beers and pretending he hadn’t heard a thing, and the conversation had stopped.

In truth, Dean was going to miss Castiel when he moved on to wherever it is he would end up going. It was nice coming home to someone, to a warm apartment and oftentimes a surprisingly tasty home-cooked meal – “I have observed much human custom, Dean, I know how to cook”, Castiel had told him, rolling his eyes. It was filling a void that Dean hadn’t even known had existed, and the thought of it returning was leaving him a little sick to his stomach.

Of course, there were other things to consider. Much as he tried to ignore it, he had to face up to the fact that Castiel was a little bit unbalanced, even if he could live and function as well as anybody else. And playing house with a man who needed some serious help when it came to his mental health probably wasn’t the best idea in the world – and that was exactly what they were doing. 

Dean would bring home little gifts for Castiel. Sometimes a new warm pair of gloves, or cinnamon buns from a bakery down the street that Castiel had discovered early one Sunday morning and fallen in love with. He found himself looking forward to the end of his work day, no longer putting in those long hours that kept him at the station house well into the night. He was even in a better mood most of the time, laughing and joking with Benny as they did paperwork and bringing coffee in from a café down the street for Tracy, who couldn’t stomach the station swill. Even Bobby, the gruff district captain, had noticed; “Don’t know what you’re doing here, boy, but keep it up,” he had said, thumping Dean hard on the back.

It happened that Castiel was an extremely tactile person – angel – whatever – on top of all that. He always had a hand on Dean’s shoulder or on his arm, or found pieces of lint to flick off of his shoulder, stray crumbs to brush off his chest, or a shirt tag to tuck back in. When they were in the kitchen together, small that it was, Castiel would always brush behind Dean, a hand of warning on his hip as he went about cooking or making coffee. 

They talked about mundane things, with Dean determined that Castiel hear all the best music and all the great films he seemed to have missed out on (though Dean steadfastly ignored the reasons why that might be). Nights found them parked in front of the television, running through the Star Wars trilogy or a few episodes of Firefly, with Dean admitting to the slightest bit of a crush on Captain Mal and Castiel identifying easily with Simon. They had begun their nightly viewings with Dean in his armchair and Castiel on the couch and somehow migrated together, Dean joining Castiel on the opposite end of the couch and moving gradually closer and closer together, until they sat huddled under the same afghan on the soft center cushions.

Dean was liking it all a bit too much.


	7. Chapter 7

Four days before Christmas, Dean came home just after true night fall, carrying with him a container of Christmas cookies from Benny’s wife, who had somehow gotten it into her head to bake dozens upon dozens in a fit of late pregnancy energy. Dean had picked up some gourmet hot chocolate the day before, and he walked cheerfully through the snow up towards his apartment, thinking of a night spent on the sofa with Cas, cookies, chocolate, and the Back to the Future trilogy.

Castiel was just plugging in the lights when Dean opened the door and froze in the doorway, the box of cookies dropping from his hands. Each window had been encircled with glittering multicolor lights, and there was a line of stockings along the center of Dean’s bookshelf. The crowning glory was huge full pine tree, twinkling with lights, tinsel, and dozens of ornaments. A red and green plaid tree skirt wrapped around the bottom of the tree, and a little plastic toy train ran in circles around it.

“Cas…?” Dean breathed out, not knowing if he should be furious or grateful.

Castiel gave him a shy smile. “Come inside,” he said softly, moving towards Dean. He picked up the forgotten container of cookies, and closed the door behind Dean, setting the cookies on the counter and guiding Dean towards the tree by his elbow. “I didn’t think you’d mind. I couldn’t stand to go another day without a Christmas tree.”

Dean couldn’t reply, his eyes roving over the tree, taking in the intricacies of each ornament, the perfect placement of each piece of tinsel, and the way the little lights seemed to shimmer. When his eyes drew up towards the top of the tree and spotted its crowning glory, he let out a gasp.

Dean would know that star anywhere. Crafted from plastic canvas and soft yellow yarn, and wired with white lights that could be plugged into the tree lights, it was a familiar sight even though Dean hadn’t seen it in nearly thirty years. It wasn’t enough for Mary Winchester to craft the perfect tree star; she had to go that extra length and wire it herself, so that it would light up and glow. 

Dean swallowed hard. “Cas, I don’t even… how?” he finally said, ignoring the tears in a free-fall down his weather reddened cheeks.

“Your brother had a few things in storage,” the angel explained quietly. “Things your father had saved and stored away for years. He hadn’t really looked into them until recently, and thought you might want this. Is this… is this okay, Dean?”

“Cas, I…” Dean stuttered, reaching to take the other man’s face in his gloves hands. He wanted to speak, wanted to tell Castiel how much the gesture meant to him, but the words wouldn’t come. Instead he did what he had been wanting to do for weeks, leaned forward, took Castiel’s face in his hands, and pressed his chilled lips softly to Cas’ own.

Castiel responded in kind, lips sliding hungrily across Dean’s, reaching at his waist to pull him closer and then push the jacket off of his shoulders. The stumbled together through the living room lit only by the light of the tree, Castiel letting out a low growl and pulling Dean closer every time the other man pulled away even the slightest bit to gain his footing.

“This is crazy,” Dean mumbled, letting Castiel pull at the buttons on his shirt while they made their way towards his bedroom.

“Mmhmm,” Castiel agreed, mouthing his way along Dean’s jaw.

“I’m crazy for even… oh fuck do that again… for even considering this,” Dean said, reaching to pull at the zipper on Castiel’s thrifted jeans while the angel sucked a bruise into his throat. 

“You are,” Castiel murmured in return, pulling away only to pull his own shirt over his head before gathering the detective back into his arms and pushing the bedroom door shut behind them. “But I am too, you say, so we’re even then.”

Dean laughed then, actually laughed, and pulled his angel back to nip at his perfect plush lips, dragging them both down to his bed and not caring for a moment what the consequences might be.

 

They woke late the next morning, having spent most the previous evening in Dean’s bed between breaks for cookies and hot chocolate beneath the Christmas tree and one deliciously hot shower. Dean felt tired and worn out and absolutely wonderful, glancing over the grey flannel sheets to see Castiel smiling softly at him, almost shyly in spite of how well they had become acquainted just the night before. 

Dean woke with a new resolve and a sense of permanence. He would get Castiel the help that he needed. They would find his family, help him make a life here. In Dean’s life. In his bed. In his arms. Things weren’t perfect but even Dean wasn’t stupid enough to give up what he knew was the best thing that ever happened to him, even as weirdly as it all had begun. Sam was healed up and that was good enough; Dean didn’t need any more answers than that.

“Morning, Cas,” Dean said, smiling sleepily at the man lounging alongside him.

“Hello, Dean,” Castiel replied in a voice even rougher than usual with sleep. “What would you like to do today?”

 

It was the first Saturday that Dean as not on shift in quite some time, and he had a few dozen errands and little housekeeping tasks that he probably should have undertaken, but he spent most of the morning lounging on the couch with Cas curled into his side, flipping between football games and cheesy holiday movies on the television. They only moved when newscasters began breaking in, speaking of a sudden freak storm rolling into the area, and Dean wanted to check that they had food and candles enough to weather the storm. A quick phone call assured Dean that Sam was safe and sound, hunkered down with Jo and her partner Jess in the sturdy Harvelle home, and another to make sure Benny had any idea of what he was in for and that he and his family would be safe.

Dean was padding back to the couch with a loaf of bread and a jar of peanut butter – they had to eat, after all – when the wide-eyed sad look Castiel shot his way stopped him in his tracks.  
“Dean,” Castiel spoke up, voice all gravelly and grave. “We need to talk.”

Settling back onto the couch beside him, Dean glanced anxiously at his – was it friend? Boyfriend? Lover? Angel…? – and set his provisions on the coffee table.  
“What’s up, Cas? Something wrong?”

“The storm,” Castiel explained. “It’s my brothers. They’re coming for me tonight.”

Dean heaved a sigh. He had tried to forget, for a little while, about Castiel’s problems, about his delusion.  
“Cas, it’s just a storm. We get’em all the time this time of year,” he said carefully.

“Dean, I know you don’t believe me,” Castiel responded, reaching out to card his fingers through Dean’s hair, unable to stop the smile that broke out on his face as Dean sighed and leaned into the touch. “I know this is hard for you. But I have to go, and I want… no, Dean, I need you to come with me.”

Eyes popped almost comically wide, Dean stared at Castiel in surprise. He had expected the man to try and make an exit, skip out before the snow hit, perhaps never be seen again as he chased down whatever demons his mind was conjuring, but this was completely out of the blue.  
“Come with you?” he repeated dumbly.

“I never meant to come here,” Castiel told him seriously. “I never meant to be there, that morning when Sam was hurt. I never meant to spend this time with you. I had thought I’d go, take a few photographs and return to my work for the season. But things got in the way, I… I think I was meant to be there, Dean, not just for Sam… but for you.”

Dean rubbed at his eyes, his heart breaking in his chest. Any other day, he’d love to hear those words. Hear Cas promise to stay, promise that they were in it together from here on out. But Castiel was sick, the strange delusions his mind kept throwing at him clouding what he thought, maybe even what he felt. Dean sighed.  
“No one’s coming, Cas,” Dean told him. “Please, just let it go. We’ll stay up all night and then you’ll see, okay? In the morning, we’ll call up Dr. Barnes, see if she can recommend somebody you can talk to about all this.”

Castiel nodded sadly. “As you wish,” he relented, settling back onto the couch and into Dean’s arms.

 

The storm hit early in the evening, the sky darkening before the sun had set and the wind howling madly, shaking the windows and sending shivers through them both. Dean wondered if he shouldn’t have gone ahead and taped the windows, the way they do down south when expecting hurricanes or worse, but he hadn’t any duct tape on hand and guessed they would have to stick it out as is. He said as much as Castiel nodding, having grown quieter as the day progressed.

The cable went out a little before eight that night and the power not long afterwards, leaving the men huddled beneath a pile of blankets on the sofa, both shivering as the cold quickly crept inside. Neither spoke then, linking fingers together beneath the blankets, each content to sit quietly and wait out the raging blizzard that had overtaken the city. 

The quiet lulled them both to sleep, and Dean awoke only when he felt a sudden chill; Castiel was gone, he realized, disappeared from his side, and the apartment door had been left open. Not even stopping to put on shoes, Dean ran for the door, an afghan draped over his shoulders as he went, trailing behind him in some mad imitation of a superhero’s cape.

When he reached the stairwell, he realized the cold wind whistling down the hall wasn’t coming from the downstairs door, but rather from the upper stairwell that led to the roof. Terrified at the thought of what Castiel might contemplating, Dean ran for the roof, pushing through the banging door that led to roof access and stepping out into the blinding snowstorm.

“Cas?” he shouted into the wind. “Castiel, where are you?”

“Dean, you need to go back inside, you’ll freeze!” Castiel’s voice called back, and Dean moved towards it as best as he could, trying to track the sound through the wind that battered him with ice pellets, tearing at his skin like tiny bullets in the cold.

“Cas, come back inside, please!” Dean shouted, voice thick with grief and desperation. 

He didn’t care anymore. If Castiel wanted to be an angel, he could be an angel. If he wanted to be some imaginary holiday icon, he could be that too. All Dean wanted was the other man back, safe and warm in his arms. It had only been a few weeks, but the idea of losing him was terrifying.

“I’ll believe whatever you want, Cas, please! Just come back inside!” Dean called, pushing through the snow piled on the roof with bare feet gone frozen and painful. He squinted, trying to see through the storm, finding himself standing at the edge of the roof. “Cas? Cas, where are you?”

He stood before the swirling apex of the blizzard, hovering somehow in the air just beside his apartment building, thick and white and impenetrable. Castiel’s voice seemed to be coming from inside it, calling to Dean like a siren luring sailors out to sea.

“Dean, you need to go inside!” Cas shouted back to him.

“I won’t go without you!” Dean replied, reaching out into the blinding snow and trying to find his angel in the fray. “Where are you, Cas? Please, c’mon, take my hand!”

He felt a warm hand close around his in the snow, and though he saw nothing before him but ice, snow, and a three story drop to the frozen streets below, he held on tightly.

“Dean, jump!” Castiel called.

“What? Are you crazy?” Dean said, still tightening his grip on the hand that held his.

“It’s the only way!” Castiel’s voice came through the storm. “Jump, Dean! If you believe, you can do it! Please! Come with me!”  
Dean thought about his life, about Sam, even as he shivered in the storm. He thought about years spent waiting for something, for someone, to make him smile the way he remembered his Dad smiling at his mother. He thought about all the ways Sam pushed at him, trying to get him to find a life outside of the law and taking care of his kid brother.

He thought of the way Castiel looked that morning, smiling back at him from his own pillows, the way his hand would brush across the small of Dean’s back when he slipped past him in the kitchen to get to the coffeemaker.

He thought of living a life without Cas, after the happy weeks they had together, and he jumped.

 

His bare feet met solid would, though he still couldn’t see a thing, until the strong hand holding his pulled him up and onto a warm bench of soft brown leather. Castiel was seated there, grinning at him, wearing his ridiculous trench coat, with tufts of snow melting in his wind-whipped hair.

“I knew you’d believe me,” Castiel said with a grin, knowing he no longer needed to shout to be heard over the wind that somehow surrounded them but didn’t touch them at all.

Dean gaped, glancing around at all the things he never thought truly possible. The sleigh looked like something out of a television Christmas special, wooden and painted red, gilded on the edges. Castiel pulled a heavy red coat trimmed in white fur from the back of the sleigh, draping it over Dean’s bare shoulders, and pulled a blanket from their feet to cover them even more. In his hands he held leather reins decked with silver jingle bells, and Dean’s wide eyes followed them out to where they attached to harnesses on eight honest to god reindeer, each slowly cycling their legs in mid-air as the sleigh stayed aloft, carried only on the wind.

“Okay…” Dean said slowly, then sat up straight, trying to compose himself. “Okay,” he repeated. “So I’m Mrs. Claus.”

Castiel laughed, a deep chuckle that made him throw his head back in glee, and snapped the reins in his hands so the reindeer carried them off into the night, drawing the snowstorm away with them.

**Author's Note:**

> Follow me on [Tumblr](http://literatec.tumblr.com), if you wish.
> 
> Please do not add this, or any of my posted works, to Goodreads. Thank you.


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